


Added Feature

by HelpingHanikan



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Brief description of violance, Brief strangulation, Crying, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, One Shot, Reader Insert, Sad Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 18:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelpingHanikan/pseuds/HelpingHanikan
Summary: With Conner usually being the one getting in danger and being hurt it's hard to say how'd he react to you suffering for a chance.





	Added Feature

Trauma is a funny thing. It has this way of fucking with your memory. You remember your coat; Connor holding it open for you, clutching it closed against the Michigan winter and taking it off, it goes onto the end of the couch. What you don’t remember is any noise; Connor is speaking but no words are coming out, the door opens but it doesn’t creak, the pan hits you but there is no clang.

            From there it’s flashes that aren’t in order. A belt around your neck _pulling_ and _pulling._ Tight fists on your face and this impossible weight on your chest. When Hank would take your statement, you could only describe his weight and hair; maybe two hundred pounds, a blonde that looked brown in the shadows. It all ends with an unholy _BANG_ and now you’re in the hospital.

            “Fucker got out a week ago from a three-year stint. Looks like you put him away for a hit and run, went looking for you the moment he was free.” Hank explains from the foot of your bed.

            You’re nodding along but, to be frank, you were still out of it. Having just woken up an hour ago, your head was still fuzzy and the stitches lining your forehead felt tight. It was also hard to swallow, a dark purple bruise in a beautiful line going right around. The only other injuries, besides the bruises, were a broken rib or two. It was obvious you were missing a good majority of the assault.

            “I’ll keep Fowler off your ass for a while.” You nod along, pretending to know what he was saying. He glances to the side of the room and then back to you. “I’ll, uh…you should rest up, kiddo.”

            He taps the bed frame before leaving. Pulling the door shut behind him.

            The ceiling lights stare at you until you’re asleep.

            When you wake up everything hurts like after a long and hard exercise, or a drag through a rock garden. With how much your body was lighting up the room was almost completely dark. Only able to make out shapes and forms, and the bright green light, showing that your next dose of morphine was available, shining within arm’s reach.

            Curses and swears come out from you when you’re reaching for the light. Body is telling you to lay back down, let the pain happen and hopefully die from the whole thing. Instead your fingers wiggle mid-air for several seconds. Connor reaches past your hand, pressing down on the green with his thumb.

            You wouldn’t know this until later, but Connor was there throughout the entire endeavor. It was he who had stopped the assault, called the ambulance and ridden with you to the hospital. Sitting in the corner of the room, straight and rigid as though he was reset to machine, when Hank was debriefing you. He only stood when you showed signs of pain while reaching for the green light.

            It’s a warm, _nice_ feeling that crawls through your body. Falling back against the hospital bed with a long _mmm_ sound.

            In the dark of the hospital room Connor looked down at you. His face silhouetted by the LED spinning around and around a hard red. It silhouetted his cheek and side of his face. Shinning a light on the streaming liquid down from his eyes and over the cheeks.

            Since the revolution you treated crimes against androids as serious as you would human crimes. Because of this you had seen shaking and broken androids from every crime in the book. Every few models could cry, though. The only two models you knew that could cry were the child brand or the Traci models. Child brand for the raw childhood experience and the Traci’s for those people were into that sort of thing. Other models you had seen would shake, sob and gasp like they were crying but actual tears never came.

            It made no sense for the RK models to be able to cry. But Connor was, thick streams of clear fluid going down his face. If the lights were on you might have seen his cheeks and face become blue from the crying.

             “Oh, sweetie,” it might have been the morphine, but the nicknames were coming easy.

            “A malfunction,” He says pressing the balls of his fists just under his eyes.

            Android tears are more than just water and salt. It’s a brand of lube made to be much more visible against the faux skin.

            “It’s okay, Sweetie. It’s okay.” Your arm on his side reaches out to touch him. Taking his elbows and gently rubbing the fabric of his jacket.

            “You were…he was strangling you. You were choking, you were going to die. I was scared.” He looks at your throat, covering his face entirely like a scared little kid. “I am scared.”

            How the hell do you respond to that?

            “Baby, come here.” Your body is screaming again, even with the morphine, to scoot to one side of the bed.

            “Don’t,” Connor says dropping his hands to try and stop you from moving.

            “Come here.” You order again, slapping the bed twice.

            He sits as stiffly as he had in the corner of the room. Your reaches out towards him. Wiggling his fingers for him to turn to. He takes your hand, “I’m alive, see?” it comes out as another order instead of a way of comfort.

            He’s gentle while taking your hand. Turning it over and placing two fingers over your pulse point. The red briefly rolls yellow and then back to red. Removing his fingers and taking your hand between both of his instead.

            “Your heart rate and vitals are normal.” Your hand is squeezed.

            “Not dead yet,” again, probably the morphine.

            His face scrunches in a way you hadn’t seen before. Turning your hand and kissing the palm. Pressing his face into your hand and kissing it again.

            “Come here,” This third one was made and came out as an order.

            An order that he obeyed. Sitting up to skootch across the mattress, turning towards you and laying so you were face to face. He seems to refuse to stare into your eyes, looking at your hairline or your throat.

            As a last straw you grab the jacket sleeve, rolling him overtop of you. It hurts your ribs having him lay overtop of your stomach. His head settling in the center of your chest, where he can monitor your heart beat. The LED was spinning yellow as it looked for any sign that there was something medically wrong with you.

            It’d be some hours before it’d change back to blue, but at least it wasn’t red.


End file.
